


Mumble

by helens78



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Anonymous Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-12-24
Updated: 2003-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-05 11:36:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sean goes looking for something instead of the person he really wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mumble

**Author's Note:**

> Very much inspired by Nienor's [Anonymous Cruelties](http://www.ravenswing.com/~keelywolfe/anonymous.html), hence the angst.

Every time Sean ends up in California he takes a stroll around the campuses. Berkley's good. Good for finding artists, people on the street who look either happy or sullen, eager or resentful, and there are just so damn many of them here that Sean can always find whatever it is he's looking for.

Some of the faces are all too familiar by now, and when Sean walks past a street vendor selling little charms that look like dolphins, he hears someone call out for him.

"Hey -- hey, I remember you."

Sean looks up and feels the wind knocked right out of him. He remembers this artist in particular. Paid him over three grand for a weekend and fucked him until his cock hurt from getting hard and coming so much. The age was right, the cut of his cheekbones, the eyes were just the right shade of blue. And maybe the lips weren't perfect, and he didn't have that scar, but Christ if it wasn't close enough, especially on the day when it was raining and droplets worked their way down the window, cutting the light into shadow-patterned slices.

And now it's even worse, because the artist's dyed his hair red, maybe in a flight of fancy, maybe because he's realized he really does look like that guy, the other one, the one who walks barefoot through Santa Monica and who just finished with the movie about the horse. Maybe he knows now that the face is a famous one, it pays to look like him.

Sean would laugh if it weren't so damned ironic. The artist who'll sell out when it comes to his body, looking like what people will pay for, but ask him about his work, try to commission a painting, and he'll snarl like a thing caged. He's not a sellout. Not this man.

"Remember you, too," Sean says, looking up into the artist's eyes. That's wrong, too; they ought to be of a height, so they can stare straight at each other. But an inch or two here or there isn't enough to quibble over.

"You looking again, man?" the artist asks.

Sean hesitates. He doesn't want to spend three grand on a weekend again. He remembers what happened after that weekend ended and he had to go home, and he ended up alone, wanting to pick up the phone and dial the right number, the right man. But he couldn't, so he jerked off to memories of the artist's broad shoulders under him, imagining the freckles in the right pattern and wondering how it would have felt if it had been the right man there and begging for it. And his chest went tight, and the pain sent him screaming over the edge, alone in the dark. It was a good hurt that ripped right through him, and he's ready to feel it again.

"Yeah," Sean says softly. "But I only have the afternoon this time."

The artist shrugs. "Fine. C'mon. We're not that far from my place."

Upstairs, the loft is dusty but at least the sheets on the bed are clean. Sean strips off and lies down on his back, and the artist makes a show out of it: takes off his shirt, his jeans, slides his hands down his body and back up, stroking his cock lightly, licking his fingers and tucking the first two inside him, just the tips, just enough to show off. Sean rests his arms behind his head and lets his eyes nearly shut, squinting a little in the dim light. Tilt your head like this and it almost looks like... of course, it doesn't, and he knows it, but it's as close as he's going to get.

The artist comes by and slides a condom down over Sean's cock, giving it a nice appreciative squeeze. "Yeah," he breathes, "missed having this in me..."

Sean doubts it, but he doesn't say anything. The artist preps himself fast and slides down over Sean's cock, squirming and panting and arching until he's taken Sean all the way in.

Sean's hands go to his hips, and he moans, shuddering. "Please," he whispers.

"Mm," the artist agrees, and begins rocking, short strokes at first until the stretch and burn of Sean's cock in him has given way to pleasure. "Mm, you feel good," he mumbles.

And there. That's right. The low voice, the monotone, the drawl... Sean arches up, growling, begging, half-incoherent and chanting out the name that doesn't belong to this artist. The artist strokes off, groaning, and paints Sean's stomach with his come. Sean follows, hands tightening on his hips.

"Nice," the artist says afterwards. "You sure you can't stay longer?"

But now that the edge of reason is creeping back into Sean's mind, he can hear the different cadences in the mumble of the artist who's still sitting on him. He can see the differences more sharply than the similarities. He shakes his head. This time, once was enough.

"Up to you, man," the artist says. "So, ah..." He climbs off and takes the condom off Sean, even going so far as to get a soft cloth and help clean him up. "How much d'you think is fair?"

Sean sits up and gets dressed, then digs into his wallet for a few bills. He ends up throwing a few hundred on the bed; doesn't even count it. The artist doesn't, either, and he comes up to Sean, still naked, still wearing spots of his own come on his skin.

"Wish you'd come around more often," he mumbles. And Sean can tell now: he's trying. He's trying to get the voice right, and he's not doing a half-bad job with it. "Like it when you're here."

It's almost the right voice, almost the right face. Sean closes his eyes and lets the artist pull him into a hug. He hugs back, and then the illusion breaks for him. He shared enough hugs with the right man to know that this artist isn't doing him justice.

"I don't get around here too often," Sean says, trying to sound apologetic. "But you know I like looking you up when I do."

"Yeah." The artist smiles. "Next time, huh?"

"Next time," Sean agrees.

* * *

Back in his hotel room, Sean rests his hand over the phone. He's not far out. Santa Monica's an easy drive. He could go. He could say hi. He could even, if he screwed up enough courage beforehand, say all the things he should have said years ago.

He knows the number by heart. He even has the scrap of paper with the new number on it tucked into his wallet. But he's done enough damage for one day, and so he lets his hand drop away from the phone, and curls up under the covers. Imagining the freckles in their proper places. Imagining the sound of mumbled words, coming together to form promises that won't break in fantasy.

_-end-_


End file.
